


Hoist the Colours High

by Kerasines



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirates of the Caribbean Fusion, Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/F, Femslash February, Femslash February 2020, First Kiss, Girl Direction, Pining, Pirates, Sharing Clothes, Swords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:54:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22575139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerasines/pseuds/Kerasines
Summary: They’re facing each other, closer now, so close, cut off from the world completely, or at least it feels that way. The blanket cages them in, blocks out the moonlight, dulls the sound of the wind, the sea, and the birds coming from outside. The air is hot and musky, but she thinks she could stay under this blanket forever. It’s their own little universe, in here, shared breath and shared heat and shared time.Or: A Girl Direction Pirates of the Caribbean AU featuring Harry as Will Turner, Louis as Elizabeth Swann, swords, and my obsession with girls in men's period clothing.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 46





	Hoist the Colours High

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/gifts).



> A very late Happy Birthday to the lovely, the wonderful, the amazing Blake! It took me ages to write this out, but here it finally is, the result of me trying to cram as many of our mutual obsessions into one fic. By which I of course mean Keira Knightley movies, girls in men's clothes, and historical accuracy. I hope you like it, I sure had a blast researching and writing this!
> 
> This is really only the beginning of a bigger story in my head that follows the events of the first movie, which I probably won't ever write, but who knows.
> 
> Thank you as always to [Jen](https://jlf23tumble.tumblr.com/) and [Katie](https://un-buttoned.tumblr.com/) for reading through this and listening to my complaints about how I can't stop doing research long enough to actually get the thing written!
> 
> (Title from the song Hoist the Colours from the movies, obviously. This song is about gay pride now. I've decided.)

The church bells chiming to announce the full hour make Harry stumble and nearly send her sprawling across the cobblestone steps. She’s _late_. Damn Mr. Brown, that old drunk – he _promised_ her that he’d make the delivery himself today.

She should have known he’d be busy sleeping off his hangover on the floor as usual when she entered the blacksmith shop earlier this morning. Her half-hearted attempt at waking him led nowhere, and there was no way he’d be up and fit for company on time. Not that Harry is fit for company in her current state, either, but at least she’s sober and awake. It will have to do.

She hates going up to the governor’s mansion. Fond as the memories of half her childhood spent running around in its gardens may be, these days all it does is make her aware of all her inadequacies. She doesn’t belong there. She doesn’t belong anywhere, really, an orphan with no name, no home, no education. The only thing she has in this world is her ability to forge a sword so well that it lives up to Mr. Brown’s name on the shop, but as much as she suspects some people in the neighbourhood have caught onto that, she doubts it’ll score her any points with the governor. No, going up there means making herself _presentable_ , to appear like the proper young lady she’s supposed to be, something she usually tries to avoid.

Her only formal dress is old and washed out, slightly too small for her tall frame. It’s nothing like anything she’s ever seen on – well, on any of the noble ladies, really. Still, she wishes she could have gone home and put it on, but there was no way she’d have made it across town and up the hill to the mansion on time. All she could do was grab the sword she thankfully finished days ago and be on her way.

Finally, she reaches the gate and lets herself in.

Thank god she knows this place well enough to find the side entrance easily, because there’s no way she could have gone in through the front gate looking like she does. She’s wearing _men’s trousers_ and nothing but a coat over her linen shirt, even chose to forgo her stays this morning because she hates that thing.

No one can see her like this, not _here_ , not the governor or – or anyone else. She’ll give the sword to a maid or a servant, with her deepest apologies that Mr. Brown was unable to present it himself due to a sudden bout of illness, and then make her way back into town where people accept her weird choices with a disapproving but resigned shake of the head, instead of it being seen as a grave insult to appear in nice company dressed as, like, a stable boy or something.

Shuddering at the thought, she peeks around the corner into the foyer. It’s empty, so she takes a few hurried steps toward the kitchens, hoping to find a servant there, when–

“Harry, is that you?”

Oh, no. No no no. “Governor Tomlinson,” she says. She turns to see him come down the big stairs, fumbles her way through an awkward attempt at a curtsy without a dress, and tries not to let her embarrassment show in her voice. “I didn’t expect, um, I’m just here to – to drop this off.” She holds the package containing the sword out to him.

“Mr. Brown’s delivery, I assume?”

She nods. “He couldn’t make it, so…”

Harry doesn’t have time to finish coming up with a story about Mr. Brown’s sudden mysterious illness that would prevent him from meeting with the governor, because at that moment, someone else appears at the top of the stairs.

 _Louis_.

Louis in a bright dress that accentuates her waist, fine hair put up into curls, her face split into a wide smile. She looks as beautiful as ever.

“Harry! Oh, it’s so good to see you, it’s been ages, hasn’t it?”

“Louis,” Harry says, her voice turning fond despite herself. She looks down at her own inappropriate clothes and feels her face colour. “Please excuse my appearance. I didn’t expect to see anyone.”

Louis just laughs. “Oh, nonsense. You look quite dashing, if I may say so.” She pauses and gets a glint in her eye. “Although, you need something else to wear to the celebration later.”

“Celebration?” Harry asks, alarmed. They couldn’t assume she would be attending Captain Norrington’s promotion. Not even Mr. Brown was supposed to attend, let alone his maid.

“Oh, what a wonderful idea,” the governor chimes in and turns to Harry. “You must join us. It’s been too long since we’ve seen you, and I’m sure Louis would be glad for your company, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, please, Harry, will you join me? These things can get dreadfully boring without a friend by your side.”

“But I,” Harry stutters, looking down at herself. She can’t imagine that they’d be willing to let her be seen in polite company dressed in breeches and a linen shirt, and even if she were to go home and change, she’s pretty sure her old dress would stick out like a sore thumb, even compared to the servants’ clothes. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

Louis smiles at her winningly, though, not concerned at all. “I’ll lend you a dress, I think we’re about the same size. Just come on up, and I’ll have the maids get you dressed and ready.”

Harry looks back and forth between Louis and the governor, torn between wanting to flee from this world she doesn’t belong in and wanting nothing more than to spend the day in Louis’s presence, in her _clothes_.

In the end, helpless to do anything else, she nods.

⸻

The dress is tight, laced together by three different maids in places she doesn’t think she could reach by herself, more layers of fabric than she’s ever worn at any one time before in her life. More than if she put on all the clothes she owns at once, probably.

She fans herself.

The people around her look like they’re wearing just as many layers as she is, so it must be on purpose. She heard it gets cold on the old continent. Maybe it’s normal over there.

“Goodness, I don’t think they want me to breathe, they laced me up so tight,” Louis grits out next to her, and, yeah, her voice sounds too thin to Harry’s ear.

She tries, she really does, not to let her eyes wander down to Louis’s waist, but she can’t help herself. The tightness of the thick white fabric, squeezing it together in a way that just accentuates the low neckline, and – Harry wishes she could blame her lightheadedness on the heat, but the churning in her gut says otherwise.

She lets her eyes snap up and tries not to blush, not to let herself be caught out, a familiar worry in her chest. But before she can decipher the look on Louis’s face, Louis’s eyes widen, catching on something behind her.

“Shit. Come on,” she says and grabs Harry’s hand.

Harry lets herself be pulled into the crowd, across the courtyard, and up the stairs until they come to a stop on a platform, sheltered from view of the other guests, overlooking the bay from up high.

“What’s – Louis, what happened?” Harry’s a little breathless from the near-running they did. This is why she wears trousers whenever she can get away with it, they’re much more practical than a laced bodice that she can barely breathe in and skirts that threaten to get caught under her shoes with every step.

Louis looks even worse off, hand pressed to her chest as she pants, trying to get air into her restricted lungs.

“Captain – _Commodore_ Norrington,” she corrects herself, rolling her eyes. “I’ve been trying to evade him all day. I think he’s trying to propose.”

“Propose _marriage_?!”

Louis shudders.

Harry feels at a loss. “Oh. Um, that’s, that’s great!” She’s pretty sure her enthusiasm doesn’t sound entirely candid, but then again, Louis doesn’t exactly seem ecstatic about the prospect, either. Which is confusing. A young, successful commodore seems like a good party for a woman of Louis’s age and standing, and that’s what most girls want, as far as Harry can tell. Maybe there’s something about the politics at court that she doesn’t understand. She falters. “Wait. Is it not great?”

“No, it’s – it is great. It _is_ , I know it is, I just.” Louis winces. “He’s so… boring.”

“Oh,” Harry says, stupidly. Doesn’t want to say that most men are quite boring, in her experience.

Louis sighs softly. “The idea of being stuck with him, stuck as his wife for the rest of my life, it fills me with dread anytime I consider it. I know I have to get married eventually, but it’s too soon, I’m…,” she trails off, turns to look over the vast ocean beneath them. “Don’t you ever just want to _escape_? Just leave, just go somewhere and _do_ something and be someone else?”

Harry’s stunned, doesn’t know what to say, because yes, of course she does. Always has, in the sense of vague, intangible daydreams. The idea that Louis, who has a family and a place to belong to and never wants for anything, feels the same – it feels significant. Like it means something. She just doesn’t know _what_.

Louis’s eyes are pleading when she turns back to Harry, her voice quiet but strong when she says, “I just want to be my own person.”

Harry nods. Thinks she might cry.

Thinks in this moment that she wants to give _everything_ to Louis.

Just like when they were little kids, evading Louis’s maids to run around the mansion and explore the grounds, find little nooks and crannies to hide in. Back when Louis was everything to Harry, when she was willing to do whatever it took to make her happy. And they’d talk about this, she remembers now. Running away together, joining the navy to fight pirates on the high seas. Louis wanted a captain’s hat so badly, used to mess up her hair by putting palm leaves on her head in pretence. The games stopped as they got older. Real life, with all its obligations, its duties and requirements, took priority.

“Like you,” Louis continues, averting her eyes now. “You’re out there, just – living your life. Wearing whatever you choose. Is it true that you forge some of the swords yourself? I heard some of the cadets talk about it, earlier.”

Surprised, Harry stares at her before answering. “Um, I do, a little. Sometimes. It’s just that he, well, Mr. Brown can’t always work, so I picked up some stuff over the years. I know I’m not as good as him–”

“Oh, nonsense. You know Miss Bailey used to work for him, she always said he’s no more than a mean old drunk. I wouldn’t be surprised if you made Commodore Norrington’s new sword all by yourself,” she adds, shooting her a look.

Harry feels herself blush. “Well...maybe.” The corner of her mouth twitches upward, and she bites her lip to stop the smile threatening to form. It shouldn’t make a difference, knowing that Louis knows that she’s good at something. “He did help with some of the hammering, at first, but the bottle of rum I brought him must have been too distracting to finish up, I guess.”

Next to her, Louis laughs, light and breathless in her corset, and Harry wants to take it off her, wants to hear her real laugh, wants her to be loud, she wants – she wants.

“We both ought to have been born as men, I think,” Louis muses, gaze set on the horizon. “You’d be an apprentice, actually get credit for your work. And I could be wearing breeches.” She pauses, grimaces. “And not be forced to get married.”

Harry leans toward the balustrade, getting too close to the edge. She watches the waves crash against the rocks beneath them, the faint sound carrying all the way up and competing with the rushing in her ears. She doesn’t say that she’s wished for the same thing countless times, watching Mr. Brown sell her work as his own, hearing the neighbourhood women talk about her at the well, lying awake at night trying to quell the images in her mind.

“Yeah,” is all she can get out, “that would be something, wouldn’t it?”

The rushing of the waves continues, pushing and breaking and receding, on and on until she can’t take it anymore.

She steps back and takes a breath, smells the salt in the air, feels the setting sun on her skin. It doesn’t serve to dwell on it. She meets Louis’s gaze and doesn’t have to force the lightness in her voice when she says, “You know, I’d quite like to see you in breeches.”

And Louis grins, links an arm through Harry’s, and leads them back toward the crowd. “Well, who knows. Might have to give it a try.”

⸻

Night has fallen, the last sounds of the celebration in the fort echoing across the bay long gone, and yet Harry lies awake in an unfamiliar bed, unable to find rest because Louis insisted, to both her father and to Harry, that Harry was to accompany her and stay the night at the governor’s mansion.

Louis has always had a way of getting whatever she desired – or she used to, Harry supposes, thinking back to Louis’s attempts at avoiding Commodore Norrington all afternoon, how they were merely delaying the inevitable.

It’s not that the bed is uncomfortable, far from it; even the mansion’s guest rooms are furnished with what must surely be the highest quality available. Harry feels like she’s lying on a cloud. And it’s not that she doesn’t want to be here, or that she’s not tired after a whole day of sweating in too many layers.

No, what’s causing her trouble is nothing but her own mind.

It’s just that, well, she hasn’t really seen much of Louis in _years_. Hasn’t talked to her, hasn’t been under the same roof as her. Spending a whole day with her, wearing her clothes, it’s a lot.

Lying in bed, in nothing but a borrowed nightgown, only one wall separating her from Louis – is _a lot_.

Louis _in a nightgown_.

Harry turns to lie on her front and burrows her face into one of the many pristine soft pillows, trying to snuff out that line of thought. Sleep. She needs to _sleep_. She needs to not think about Louis in any way, and most certainly not about how close Louis is, how she’s lying in bed only one room over.

How she’s probably worn the gown Harry’s in before. How the light fabric Harry can feel against her skin might have touched _Louis’s skin_ before. Soft linen wrapped around her, caressing her naked body, and now touching Harry. It must have been washed and bleached, but maybe, just maybe one of the laundry maids made a mistake, didn’t use enough soap or didn’t let the bleach set, and something of Louis remained in the fabric, some of her sweat, not enough to carry a scent but enough that Louis’s essence is now being transferred onto Harry’s skin.

Harry’s hips hitch against the mattress.

Once, then again, and she stops herself for a few long seconds, her arms tightening around the pillow in an effort to resist the pleasurable feeling. Tries to will herself to ignore the feeling between her legs. It’s not long before she gives in and falls into a slow rhythm. A shameful flush travels up her neck, warms her cheeks at the thought of how good it feels.

She shouldn’t be doing this.

Not ever, but especially not right now, right here, in an upstanding household, a bed that doesn’t belong to her, in sheets that she isn’t going to wash herself.

With Louis so close, close enough to hear her through the wall, and, god, that thought alone makes her whimper into the pillow. All day she has managed to keep it at bay, only for the floodgates to open now. She thinks about Louis in that dress, all laced up, the tight, starched fabric showing off so much yet so little. Imagines undressing her. Unlacing that corset, seeing layer after layer fall open, baring Louis before her eyes, beneath her hands.

She hitches a leg up, gets a better angle against the mattress, mouth falling open and panting into the sheets. She keeps her movements slow, shallow, tries not to lose herself in it.

It’s not quite enough, like this, but it’s all she dares to do.

The image in her mind changes as she remembers Louis’s remark from earlier that day. All of a sudden, Louis isn’t wearing a dress anymore, but a pair of knee-length breeches. Fabric hugging her thighs. Harry wonders what the shape of her bottom might look like without all the hoops and layers of skirts disguising it, suddenly, _desperately_ wanting to know the shape of her body. She presses her eyes closed. She doesn’t know why it should be so appealing, to imagine Louis in men’s trousers. An open linen shirt and boots and–

She stills abruptly when there’s a sound in the hallway, and not a moment too soon, because only a few seconds later, she hears the telltale _click_ of the door opening and closing.

“Harry?” A low voice. “Are you awake?”

It’s Louis. Harry’s heart starts beating fast, and she hopes that Louis can’t tell she’s out of breath as she moves closer into the room. “Yes.”

To her horror, Louis doesn’t stop once she reaches the far edge of the bed. Instead, she lifts the covers and slides right in next to Harry.

The pale moonlight shining in through the open window is enough to illuminate the smile on Louis’s face.

Harry watches her with big eyes, heartbeat rabbiting in her chest, and turns to face her, ignoring the damp spot her breath left on the pillow under her cheek, trying not to give away what she’d been doing just moments ago. Her mind can’t quite catch up to the fact that Louis is in front of her, now, when she was but a mental picture inside her depraved imagination seconds ago. She’s never felt so guilty before in her life.

But Louis doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss. “Do you remember, when we were children, and I’d sneak into your bed, and we’d talk and play deep into the night?”

As if Harry could ever forget the countless hours spent in this house. “You’re doing it wrong, then,” she says with a smile on her lips, indulging Louis’s reminiscing. “We always used to put our heads under the covers. Thought the maids couldn’t hear our conversations that way.”

Louis gasps, pretending to be appalled. “You’re _right_. Well, come on, then.”

And she lifts the sheet covering the both of them, waits for Harry to slide down the mattress to lift it over her head, then follows along.

They’re facing each other, closer now, so close, cut off from the world completely, or at least it feels that way. The blanket cages them in, blocks out the moonlight, dulls the sound of the wind, the sea, and the birds coming from outside. The air is hot and musky, but she thinks she could stay under this blanket forever. It’s their own little universe, in here, shared breath and shared heat and shared time.

“I missed this,” Louis says once they stop moving to get comfortable, quiet filling the space between them. “I miss _you_.”

Harry’s breath hitches. “I miss you, too,” she breathes.

Slowly, tentatively, Louis lifts a hand to Harry’s face and touches her fingertips to her skin. It’s still flushed, must feel warm, and Harry doesn’t know what to do, so she stays completely still under Louis’ touch.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to come here anymore. You were so busy, with lessons and events, the other ladies.”

Louis strokes her fingertips over Harry’s cheek, brushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I never wanted to be too busy to see you,” she says, regret coating her words. “You’re always welcome here. I’d sneak away to the beach or the market with you any day, rather than sit around with the same horrible people listening to the same horrible gossip.”

“I’ll have to borrow more dresses from you, if you want me to come to this part of town more often,” Harry replies, which doesn’t even make any sense, but she can’t concentrate with Louis’s fingertips touching her, distracting her. The heat under the blanket makes her lightheaded.

“I think I prefer you in trousers, if I’m being honest. It suits you. Your legs…,” Louis trails off, and it’s too dark for Harry to see more than her silhouette, to glean meaning from the expression on her face.

But Louis’s fingers keep wandering, making their way across her skin, following her jaw, then coming up to trace the corner of her mouth, her cupid’s bow, ever so lightly. Harry almost wonders if she’s imagining the touch in the darkness, but her senses are more alert than ever, her entire being focused on Louis’s fingertips resting on her bottom lip.

On instinct, she wets her lips, and her tongue grazes Louis’s finger, just slightly, barely there, but it’s enough to light a fire in her belly.

Louis breathes in sharply, and Harry waits for her to pull away for a few torturous seconds, but she doesn’t.

Instead, she presses in with her finger, pulling Harry’s bottom lip down softly, touching where her skin was left damp from her tongue.

Harry does the only thing she can think to do and wets her lips again. Slower, this time, with more deliberation, but quickly enough to play it off as an accident when she bumps against Louis’s fingertip and shies back.

“Harry,” Louis breathes.

Harry wants to breathe Louis’s name in the same soft, urgent tone, wants to say _yes_ , or _please_ , wants to ask what this is, but she doesn’t, can’t, for fear of dislodging Louis’s fingers and breaking the spell, making her move away. So she just opens her mouth further, touches the very tip of her tongue to Louis’s finger where it’s still resting on her bottom lip. Waits for Louis to respond. In what way, she has no idea. She just needs, desperately, for Louis to do _something_.

It’s not a complete surprise, but it steals the breath from her lungs regardless when Louis nudges the tip of her finger against her tongue. Slides it into her mouth, inch by inch, agonisingly slowly.

Harry doesn’t know what to do, what Louis expects her to do, what she’s allowed to do. She presses back lightly but doesn’t dare to do more than that, eyes straining in the dark, trying to make out Louis’s expression. Louis presses in further, strokes along her tongue, sparking up Harry’s insides with the weight of it, the taste of her skin. She keeps her arms still where they’re folded in front of her, forces herself not to move, not to grab Louis and drag her closer, closer against her like her body is begging her to.

A split-second thought enters Harry’s mind of what it would be like to close her mouth around Louis’s finger, to suck it deeper inside, make Louis feel her as strongly as she feels her taking up space in her mouth, but before she can make up her mind and do something, the finger is gone, leaving her empty and untethered and gasping, and Louis uses her hand to take hold of her jaw instead.

She leaves a wet smear of Harry’s own spit next to her mouth, fingers digging into her skin softly, just enough to keep Harry grounded, keep her from moving away in fear that she did something wrong. Keeping her close, undemanding yet irresistible.

And then Louis is moving closer in the darkness, mere inches from her face, close enough that Harry can feel her breath on her skin on every exhale, cold where it’s wet with spit, warm everywhere else.

It’s intimate, exhilarating.

Louis nudges their noses together. Finds Harry’s lips with her own, fumbling blindly in the dark, a barely-there touch, and Harry can’t help but move into it, press their lips together more firmly, eliciting a pleased hum from Louis.

Her fingers are trembling when Harry reaches up and cups her own hand over Louis’s where it’s still on her jaw, presses down, and Louis responds by tightening her hold. She parts her lips slightly, mouthing at Harry until she mirrors her, and, oh, _oh_ , the feeling of it sends Harry’s head spinning.

She’s seen people kiss. Has heard them talk about it, describe it, enjoy it. But never could she have imagined the bliss of someone else’s lips on hers. Of _Louis’s_ lips. So soft and plump, moving against her slowly, opening around a gasp when Harry flits her tongue out to get a taste. She can’t think, can’t focus on anything but the sensation of Louis against her, everything else fading away.

Harry rasps out, “Louis–,” not knowing what she’s trying to say, but she doesn’t get a chance to find out, because suddenly there’s a loud noise coming from outside, ripping them from their bubble abruptly.

They still, listening for a second, then Louis whips the sheet off their heads and they scramble to sit up.

The night air is cool on Harry’s flushed skin, but it’s the sounds coming in through the window that make her shiver.

“Guns,” Louis says, as if to herself, then races to the window and backs away from it again after catching sight of the harbour. “Pirates.”

The fear is palpable in her voice, echoing the way Harry’s stomach drops.

She frees herself from the sheets and hurries over to the window, where she’s met with an image straight from a nightmare. The harbour is illuminated by fires, smoke rising from burnt houses, faint cries in the distance drowned out by gunfire much closer to them. As she stands there in horror, cannon fire from a ship tears through buildings, leaving them in ruins.

 _Pirates_. Pirates in Port Royal, after over a decade of no attacks. And they’re close, making their way across the mansion’s courtyard by the sound of it, doubtlessly heading inside in search of treasure and blood.

Her mind begins to race. She trained for this, trained for the day that she’d meet a pirate, but the reality of it leaves her petrified and woefully unprepared. Standing barefoot in the governor’s guest room, wearing but a nightshirt, shaking from the whiplash of going from kissing Louis Tomlinson to facing a pirate attack. Fuck. She needs a weapon.

Eyes darting around the room, she grabs an unlit candle holder from the desk. It’s heavy, made out of solid metal, but not ideal.

Louis grabs her arm and pulls her through a door into the adjoining sitting room. “Harry, we need to hide,” she says, her eyes big and frightened, clearly aware of the commotion that can be heard from inside the house now. “There’s barely any guards – the celebration –,” she turns in a circle frantically, but there’s no place to hide, and the windows are too far up to consider jumping out.

But there, mounted on the wall, Harry spots two swords. Oh, thank god.

She shoves the candle holder at Louis and stretches to grab one of them, ripping the whole frame down with it.

“Shit, help me with this,” she hisses.

Together, they yank at it until the swords come free, just in time for the door to be thrown open with a loud crash.

Harry whips around, sword raised, and sees what’s clearly a pirate charging toward them, ragged clothes, unkempt beard, and crazy eyes matching every description of these vile men that she’s heard over the years. She steps in and expertly parries his vicious, practised blows one by one and can feel the triumph rising in her throat, vindication so close that she can almost taste it, all the hours and hours spent at the shop training in secret paying off. She’s fighting a pirate, she’s holding her own against him, and she’s never felt more powerful or more terrified in her entire life.

“Harry!” Louis’s panicked voice breaks through her focus, and she sees another pirate enter the room, illuminating it with a torch he’s carrying. Then, two more behind him, and another one, and she suddenly finds herself with several pistols pointed at her.

She stops, shying away from them instinctively, and sees Louis caught in the grip of one of the men, dagger at her throat.

“Drop it,” one of the men gestures at her with his pistol, her attacker stepping out of the way with a grin.

A cold feeling spreads through her as she realizes it’s over. Her sword is no protection against a bullet, no matter how well she can wield it, nor is the thin fabric of her nightgown, and the sight of a blade at Louis’s throat where her hands were, minutes or a lifetime ago, makes her dizzy with fear. She does as she’s told, though, lowering the sword in her hand slowly, letting it clatter to the floor. Giving up her only weapon.

There’s nothing they can do. The fighting is still going on outside, but the house is silent. Nobody’s coming for them.

The pirate holding onto Louis grabs at her, and Harry’s gut clenches painfully in fear, but he only snatches her necklace and holds it up. It’s a strange medallion, a golden coin, the metal glinting in the glare of the torch. It sparks something in Harry’s memory, but she can’t place it, doesn’t have time to contemplate.

“What’s your name?” the man asks Louis, an eerie look on his face.

“Styles!” Harry blurts out before Louis can say anything. Her mind is racing. If they find out that she’s the governor’s daughter, they’ll kidnap her, she’s sure of it. But they’re both dressed in simple nightgowns, indistinguishable from each other, nobody could tell the difference between Louis and a simple maid, if they don’t give away her real name. “Our name is Styles.”

When she gets a wide grin in response, Harry tenses. Glee was not the response she expected. She suddenly feels like she made a mistake.

“Styles,” the pirate says, working around the syllables like they feel familiar in his mouth.

The other men chuckle.

“You hear that? We found ourselves not one Styles, but _two of them_.” His voice is menacing, and far too pleased.

Harry doesn’t understand. They know her name, it’s becoming increasingly clear, but how, and why? She’s missing something, something big, she can feel it, and the glance that Louis shoots her mirrors her confused panic.

One of the men steps toward her, pistol never straying from her, and she can’t do anything but let him, her entire body tensing in sick anticipation. This is it, they’re going to die.

The pirate smiles, lips stretching his face like a grimace, and his teeth are foul.

“You’re both coming with us now, _Misses Styles_.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SORRY FOR THE CLIFFHANGER. Trust me, I want more of this as much as anyone, but I'm simply too busy with other projects at the moment. Just know that Harry and Louis are kidnapped to lift the curse, the plot gets resolved fairly easily because Jack Sparrow isn't here to complicate things, and then they decide they quite like the pirate life actually, and live happily ever after as pirate queens.
> 
> tumblr: [1d blog](https://justlarried.tumblr.com/post/190664523963/) / [main](https://kerasines.tumblr.com/)


End file.
